Turn On My Lights
by piratesmiley
Summary: There was a knock at the door, and she jumped about two feet into the air." Peter/Olivia. Spoilers for several episodes.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I just heard some slightly depressing spoilers. Although, I am easily depressed by spoilers, so the legitimacy of my sadness is a bit hazy...

I have to warn you all that I'm not great at writing multi-chapter fics. Fortunately, I've already finished this one, so there's less to screw up. The chapters will be fairly short, and the first one (this one) will actually take place during the last few scenes of Ability. The rest will branch off from that.

Spoilers: 1.04, 1.10, 1.14

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

_Baby, baby can't you see  
This world ain't big enough for you or me so  
Light the candles and turn out your lights  
And turn on my lights  
--_Leona Naess, Star Signs

"You're out of your _mind._"

God, that hurt. It stung. It shocked. She felt like she just got punched in the stomach. She could hear him walking away from her, hurrying away from certain death.

She wanted to save him, but she knew she couldn't. This one time, she didn't have the power. So no matter how much it hurt to hear, she let him go. Lives were in danger, and Olivia Dunham would stay here through the end for them—a human sacrifice.

She hoped they appreciated it, but knew that they wouldn't. They'd never know.

She thought, in a spasm of fear and self-doubt, about all the things she had done wrong. She hadn't taken enough chances, she hadn't appreciated her sister, spent time with her niece, protected her mother, killed her stepfather.

In a desperate attempt, her eyes shifted back toward the lights. _Focus._

Her mind went blank—or maybe it was a frenzy so indiscernible that she perceived it as blank—and she felt white water rapids of emotion pouring out of her, drenching the floor, the wires, the lights. Tears formed, jaw set in place—but she hardly noticed.

Maybe the lights started to flicker off because that's the way they were programmed—to trick her like she tricked them. Maybe it was a divine intervention; maybe even God had no faith in her ability and needed to step in. Maybe she had never wanted anything more than _that right there_, anytime before in her life. Maybe she had the power to turn them off.

She felt him return behind her, and she pulsed with that feeling.

5, 4, 3, 2, and she killed the lights.

--

"He couldn't have known when you were going to arrive. He couldn't have known the timing on that." He argued.

"Well, that's what he did." They were beginning to develop an impasse. _He_ believed, _she _didn't, which was quite a role reversal.

"Look, I'm the last person to subscribe to this kind of stuff, but you were in the zone out there tonight, Olivia. The way you stared at that box was like nothing I'd seen before." Awe. He was giving her shock and awe.

"It wasn't me." She gave him resolution.

"Fine, then let me play Devil's advocate: why did Jones choose you at all?"

She was getting irritated, adamant, and that made her flush him with blame. "Because of your father. He wanted to meet your father; he wanted to meet the man that designed the device that let him escape from prison."

He didn't fall for it. "You think that's what all this is about? Okay, fine, look all I know is I didn't die tonight so I'm pretty much willing to accept any explanation you want to give. You want to go get a drink…or five? I've seen you with a whiskey bottle." He smiled; he tried to charm her.

She didn't fall for it either, but she did remember vaguely, happily the night in Cambridge. She laughed, and pocketed the invitation. She was going to need it.

--

She flipped the phone shut, stunned, and yet not surprised. She should've known she couldn't be so lucky.

She tried to push it out of her mind. This did not happen. _It didn't._ But her just telling herself the fact wasn't going to make it true.

She recalled the argument she and Peter started—he had believed that she had done it. He believed in her. Well, that decided that—she dialed.

"Hey, Peter. It's Olivia. Does the offer to get drunk still stand?"

They picked a place.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Part 2/4!

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe. Still.

* * *

_Wall the papers and call your friends  
No longer do we have to pretend  
'Cause honey, baby, you've been on my mind  
Like all of us who have waited for a time  
_--Leona Naess, Calling

If he were being truthful with himself— he wasn't often—then he would admit that he especially loved her drunk. It was kind of a cliché, but it was true. The heat in her face was charming, her laugh was sweet like honey and honest, her eyes were completely disarming, her smile took his breath away. It made him believe that things could still be beautiful.

And that made him want to get drunk, and bask in the glory of it all. He throws back his fifth…or sixth, while she does her sixth…or seventh. They're enthusiastic tonight.

"So. Why'd you change your mind?" He'd been working up the courage to ask her all night.

He made his tone so genial that despite the faint realization that this might be a personal question, she answered compliantly, "about what?"

"About coming out with me tonight."

Her face grew somber, and he realized, stupid with liquor, that maybe he shouldn't have said it, if it took away the laughs he had managed to etch on her face.

She looks down at her beer, twirling the bottle a bit in deliberation. She should tell him, shouldn't she? He should know. Besides, he had said she needed a best friend, and this is what friends did, right? Told each other secrets. And right now Peter was the best candidate. Hell, he was the only candidate. But she didn't seriously mind. She wouldn't admit it sober, but drunk it seemed a happy thought: Olivia liked Peter.

That satisfied her enough to tell him: "Nina Sharp called me."

"Well, I guess that's reason enough, isn't it?" He tried to get another laugh from her. It didn't work. "What did she say?"

"The drug."

"What?"

"The drug, the, um… Cer-Cuh- Cortexiphan-an. That. There was another trial. In Jacksonville."

Suddenly, Peter was extremely angry. Somebody drugged Olivia. Somebody that wasn't his crazy father (apparently, drunk Peter figured _that_ was okay).

"They drugged you."

"I guess so. I guess you were right. It must have been me, with the lights." She felt in awe of herself. "You were right. You're always right."

Her knees brushed his, lightning, and he flushed unexpectedly.

"Yes." He agreed, and she laughed.

"No, really. You are always right. You've been right about everything so far." She kept going, and then she laughed. "Maybe that's what Walter was talking about."

"What was Walter talking about?"

Oh, damn. She shouldn't have said that. She _really_ shouldn't have said that. He must have seen it on her face, because his smile dropped off in an instant.

"Liv?"

"Tomorrow." She said automatically. "I'll tell you tomorrow. When I can think straight again."

He seemed to swallow that with another gulp of beer. "Okay." The truth: he was perfectly content sitting there with her, ignoring the work that they did, the murky academic puzzle. He imagined that if he could get her mind off of it, she would be able to do the same for him. Good karma.

"I have a theory now, you know," he told her, leaning in close.

"'Bout what?"

"You."

She smiled, hesitant. "What about me?"

He was mesmerized and intoxicated enough to hope this line would work. She was tipsy and trusting enough that it did. "I think you're magic."

She smiled wider, brighter. "Do you, now?"

"Oh, yes. I do."

"Well, lucky me. I've managed to fool you."

He leaned back from his too-close position and laughed, disengaging from the blatant flirting. It was working, and that could take them in a dangerous direction. He wondered if that was such a bad thing.

She decided for him, because ten minutes later they were in a taxi, heading toward her house.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: 3/4. Prepare yourselves--this may get a bit steamy. You're welcome. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

_Don't waste no time, streets are on fire  
Hold out your arms, yes, it's called desire  
Getting quite sleepy but you held the door  
The light from your eyes asks me for more  
_--Leona Naess, Yes, It's Called Desire

She poured herself another drink. She'd offered him one, but he stuck to coffee. He warned her that she should too, but she didn't listen. Instead, she was using it to make herself brave enough to question him.

"You almost left." She started. "You said you were done, you were hitting the road." She joined him at his spot leaning against the counter.

"I did say that."

"You said you felt sorry for me."

"I said I felt sorry about what happened to you." He clarified.

"Whichever."

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

"I have a lot of questions for you, Peter." She shrugged, as if it was no big deal, but he could feel her longing for answers behind the half-innocent words. "And, because I'm drunk." She answered a little too honestly; he accepted that.

"What would you do if I tried to leave again? If I _did_ leave?"

She didn't want to answer that.

"Hey, if you get to ask questions, so do I. I may not be as drunk as you, but I am fairly intoxicated." He leaned close on the last word. The proximity spurred her into an answer.

"Why, I'd have to kidnap you, of course."

"Yeah, somehow that doesn't seem so bad," he chuckled, imagining the possibilities.

She seemed to be doing the same, because she continued: "I would take you somewhere. We could go…" Her voice was low and sweet, the way she intended. She knew what she was doing and she knew she shouldn't but Olivia kept going. "Do some things, good things…maybe some bad things…" She leaned closer in persuasion.

"That's amazing specificity, Olivia." He murmured.

"You want me to be specific?" Inches, centimeters, moments away.

He nodded, daring her, so she complied.

"I could make you stay…"

Undeniable heat was what her lips brought him. It made him unendingly thirsty, thirsty for her and she was happy to supply. It climbed to an inferno as his hands slid under her blouse and her tongue gained entrance.

They didn't need each other—they weren't at that level. This wasn't emotional; this was pure science, as most things were, because they _wanted_ each other, in their separate, desperate ways. But regardless of this beautiful, drunken mess, they had potential.

So they were there, together. Three in the morning in her kitchen. Sliding towards the floor.

She had no limits. When that registered, he pulled away miserably.

"Listen," he told the woman on his lap, desire in her eyes, "If, in the morning, you'd like to continue, give me a call. Although I don't think you'll remember, because, let's face it sweetheart, you're drunk."

He resorted back to his sarcasm reluctantly, but she seemed to see through it and understand. Surprisingly enough, it didn't feel like a denial, like rejection. It felt gallant.

She nodded with a small upturn of the lips. Her blonde halo curtained them while she gave him her lips again, soft and warm like summer rain.

--

When she arrived at the lab that morning, her eyes trained first on Peter. He looked up from his work to see her giving him the strangest expression. _Here it comes._

"What?" He asked when she was close enough.

She stared, mesmerized, for a moment more before shaking her head in a daze. "I just…I had a strange dream, that's all."

"Uh huh." He offered. "Was I in it?"

She nodded hesitantly, confusedly.

"Of course I was." He smirked cockily, passing her and _accidentally_ brushing his hand lightly against his. She stuttered. Sharp intake of breath. Her head turned to watch him go.

That's when it started to come back.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Last one...

Disclaimer: I LOVE FRINGE, BUT I DON'T OWN IT.

* * *

_I cannot wait for  
I will not wait forever  
It's such a drag  
Nobody knows me better  
I'm heavy like Sunday  
I wanna be your reason why  
I'm heavy like Sunday  
I wanna be your alibi_

And friends make better lovers  
'Cause they look you in the eye  
And they'll put you in the middle  
Of a thousand whys  
--Leona Naess, Heavy Like Sunday

First, she locked herself in her makeshift office in the Harvard building. She needed to stay close, to remind herself exactly of the decision to be made.

She hated not being in control of her memory; she had just got it back from John, and now it was taken by alcohol. What could she have said? What could she have _done?_ She knew she went out with Peter. She wondered briefly, shamefully, if he took advantage of her, if that's why she felt so…_God._ She sighed and peered through the blinds to watch him. She cleared the thought—and the wonderful, messy, _loud_ images—from her brain. This wasn't happening now. Who was he, to think that he could make her feel this way? Did he think he had the right? Cocky smartass. Olivia was ready to march right out there, but she stopped herself a moment from the door.

This was silly. _Calm down._

It was the time for rational thinking; it had never failed her before. She just needed to calmly ask Peter what happened, that's all. It's nothing. It's fine.

There was a knock at the door, and she jumped about two feet into the air.

She calmed herself, and called a hoarse 'come in.' And…speak of the devil.

"Walter says he's got a—"

"I need to talk to you." She cut off.

He stared at for a moment, wondering what the hell she was going to do to him. "Okay." He shut the door.

"We went out last night." She confirmed. He nodded warily. "I…I don't…"

"You don't remember." He said flatly. He knew that it would happen, but he couldn't help being disappointed.

"I don't remember…much, actually." She walked closer, lowering voice. "What happened? I don't…I don't like not knowing." She looked up at him, half vulnerable.

He was stunned by her fear; he couldn't answer.

"What? Peter, what did I do?"

Hesitation. Deliberation. She didn't move a muscle when he leaned in, but when he landed there was a gratifying response. Knowing that she could have pushed him away and that _she hadn't_, he pinned her against the table. Her arms wrapped around his neck and he slowly bent her back, hand supporting her neck, running his tongue over her lips. Hands on either side of her face, resting on the table underneath. Mess of blonde hair. Sweet, slow, warm. New. Different.

And again, all too soon, he pulled back.

He refused to let her up though. "You did that."

She froze. She wondered, amazed, just how wild she could get, because _that _was…she reached up to kiss him again, like she had done the night before, as her foggy memories started to return.

"We shouldn't." Regret colored her tone. He wondered if it was the regret of kissing him, or the regret of not being able to do more of it.

"We shouldn't," he agreed. "I'm curious, though—just how often do you follow the rules?"

She hoped desperately that he couldn't see how much of an effect he had over her mind, her body. It was bordering on ridiculous.

"We need to decide…something." She attempted to rationalize and take control, but _him pressed against her_ wasn't helping the cause.

"Well, we could try…"

"We could." She agreed.

"Or, we could forget it."

"Peter, you're still on top of me." She murmured. His hands were still on her bare hips and her eyes were still intent on his lips.

"Yes, it seems I am." He made no move to get up.

"I don't want you to move."

"Really? You just want to stay here forever? I think we might have to get up eventually…" he whispered, to cover his love of her admission.

"Probably…" she leveled.

"Or I could just kidnap you," he repeated her offer, and they both smiled wider.

This was murky territory. They hadn't known each other for that long, but then again, affection can grow fast.

Olivia had never really faced something like this before. She hoped in jealousy—a strange jealousy, an inappropriate, unwarranted, immediate one—that Peter hadn't either. Maybe they could explore this together.

But was she willing to take the chance? She had gotten her closure, and she wasn't one to mope. She was practically string free, she realized, a way she hadn't been in a long time.

Her eyes flickered to meet his. She gave him his answer.

"Somehow, that doesn't seem so bad."

* * *

Done. I am done. I am done and cakes are finished. I like cakes, and finishing. Done. Cake. Done. Mmmmm.

Review. Please.


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